I'm Not Sick, But I'm Unwell
by ChasetheWindTouchtheSky
Summary: Request for Cuppa-Char: After collapsing in gym, Stiles is being forced to go home. But with the Sheriff and Melissa busy, the school calls Agent McCall for pick-up, based off an old version of his emergency contacts list that'd never been update. It's strained, bringing up harsh memories they both have tried to forget. Maybe that's what they both needed. One-Shot.


**Hey! I finally am getting around to some requests that I've gotten over the past few weeks – I had finals and other shenanigans, so I got a bit behind. This one's for Cuppa-Char, who asked for Agent McCall thinking about his past with Stiles, comparing with what happened in ****_Weaponized._****Specifically, the request was this:**

**"****Are you up for another one-shot fic? I have Stiles and Agent McCall family feels right now: Stiles becomes unwell school, and he can't drive himself home, so the school have to call contacts on his file. They can't get hold of his dad (out of town, un-contactable?) and Melissa is stuck at work. Stiles file has not be updated, so they end up calling Agent McCall to come and pick him up instead. Just a fluffy one-shot where Stile is feeling really poorly and Agent McCall isn't a complete douche."**

**Then I asked: "*high-pitched screeching* With connections/flashes of what happened in Weaponized, paralleling the two?!"**

**Yup. So this is what happens when you request to me. Things get weird. And fluff is never really fluff. It's like fluff wrapped in angst. Because… emotions.**

I'm Not Sick, But I'm Unwell

_By ChasetheWindTouchtheSky_

Nothing prompted Agent McCall to think that this day would be different than any other day. He was greeted in the Sheriff's department with the usual amount of disdain as normal – apparently trying to get the Sheriff sacked is cause for social isolation and to be treated like a pariah. He originally assumed that people would be pleased to get the Sheriff out of office, especially after all the deaths and problems with his department. But no, it only made them more determined to protect him.

He'll never understand people.

It's a particularly busy day, the Sheriff running around with that Deputy that looks like he'd serve much better on an Abercrombie ad and Derek Hale – who, for some reason, has been a frequent visitor to the station as of late. He knows that people are keeping things from him (obviously, why else would they constantly ask the opinion of a convicted felon for his opinion), but he still hasn't been able to put all the pieces together.

So when his phone rings, distracting him from staring at the Sheriff in his office intently, he isn't really paying attention. "Hello?" He says dazedly, still fixating on whatever Derek Hale and the Sheriff are talking about.

"Rafael McCall?" A strange, yet pleasant voice on the other end of the line asks. "This is Lucy Conrad from Beacon Hills High School."

Agent McCall sits up a little straighter at that. "Yes? Is Scott okay? Any other incidents at the school that I need to be aware of?"

"Actually, I'm not calling on behalf of Scott, I'm calling about Stiles Stilinski."

Now that is the most confusing thing he's heard all day – and that's saying something. "Stiles?" He repeats, trying to wrap his head around that information. "Why are you calling me about Stiles?"

"We've been trying to get a hold of both John Stilinski and Melissa McCall for a while now, but haven't been able to get a hold of them. You're listed as the third emergency contact on his sheet."

"I am?" Agent McCall asks. He knows he probably sounds stupid, but he can't help it. Then his mind wanders to years previous, when he was still with his wife and Claudia Stilinski was in the hospital. He remembers John – a deputy at that time – taking him aside and asking him if he wouldn't mind replacing his wife on the emergency contact list because, whether he wanted to believe it or not, Rafael would be a better candidate to pick him up.

He can't believe the thing hasn't been updated.

"Mr. McCall?"

"Yes, I'm still here," the man says distantly. "Is everything alright? What can I do?"

"Unfortunately, Mr. Stilinski collapsed in gym today and the nurse thinks he'd be do better just going home. Is there any way you can pick him up?"

"Collapsed? Shouldn't he be going to the hospital?"

"That was our initial reaction, but it seems that Mr. Stilinski has pretty vocal opinions about that course of action."

"Mr. Stilinski has pretty vocal opinions about pretty much everything," Agent McCall responds with a huff.

The woman laughs – in a way that only someone with extensive first-hand experience with Stiles' _opinions_ could – and says, "Do you have the time?"

Agent McCall looks over at the Sheriff's door, where he's still in a heated argument with Derek Hale and Deputy Parrish. He considers walking the twenty feet and telling him that his son collapsed in the middle of gym, but something stops him.

_"__I'm going to count to three. And then I'm going to shoot you."_

_Like the idiot he is, Stiles turns to face the man threatening him. Agent McCall marvels at the headstrong nature of the boy that is literally going to get him killed. "One," the teacher starts and Agent McCall feels his palms sweating. Why isn't he doing anything? Why isn't Stiles doing anything? "Two."_

_That's when he shuts his eyes. He's radiating with fear and resolution – a concoction only made for those resigned enough about death, but smart enough to know what it means._

_"__Three."_

_To be honest, Agent McCall didn't realize he'd pulled the trigger. Sure, a similar outcome could've been had if he shot the man in the leg or chest, but there was a certain sense of desire to protect the boy that had unwillingly become so integral to his life. He could feel his fear from the other room and wanted nothing more than to eradicate any element of it. And in this moment?_

_That meant eradicating a person._

Agent McCall closes his eyes. "I'm on my way."

He doesn't glance at the Sheriff's door again.

**XXX**

By the time he gets to the school, class must be in session because the hallways are unusually quiet. He can hear the arguing from the office, though, where he knows one Stiles Stilinski is probably coming up with every excuse in his repertoire (which, admittedly, will be a lot) to convince the nice ladies in the office to let him go back to class.

"—listen, by saying that I can't go back to class, you're saying I'm not mentally congruent enough to make my own decisions! Is that way you're saying? Is that what you're saying, Doris? That I am not _mentally congruent_ enough to decide that _I'm fine_ and can handle the rest of the school day?"

"Stiles, sit down, you're going to work yourself up into a panic."

"Doris, after everything we've been through, you're acting so cold! I just got a little faint, that's all. Everyone gets faint in gym! It's, like, a law or something. Because when you're exercising heavily, sometimes your body doesn't have enough nutrients in storage to keep up with what you're body's doing, and then it simply shuts down! Do you want the history of fainting, because I can give it to you. Let me tell you, it's definitely not for the faint of heart. There was this guy—"

"I'm here for pick-up," Agent McCall clears his throat, stopping Stiles from continuing on a path he's certain no one wants to listen to. The office secretary looks relieved.

Stiles, on the other hand, less so.

"No," he states. "You've got to be kidding. _No_. Why is _he, _of all people, picking me up? It is school policy that the person has to be permitted by a parent or guardian and—"

"He is, Stiles," the receptionist says tiredly, showing him the sheet.

Stiles rips it from her hands, his eyes growing comically wide as he scans the information. "This has to be a mistake. A glitch in the system! Because _no way_ my dad ever agreed—"

"Come on, Stiles, let's just get this over with." Agent McCall groans, now wondering what possessed him to do this. The teen glares at him, his wide eyes filled with every amount of frustration they could muster (he's used to it), but then he sees something else.

Hesitation.

_Once Agent McCall realizes that he did it – that he wasn't late and that the man is on the floor and Stiles is still standing, he can feel his legs again. But then he sees that blood covers the teen's ace and he's staring at the dead body with wide, terrified eyes, like the kid that once hid under his and Melissa's bed when he and Scott snuck A Nightmare on Elm Street when they were eight. _

_It's hard not to feel anything, when looking into those eyes. Because while Stiles grow up from the hyperactive, lanky boy to the hyperactive, lanky teen his is now, wrapping everything he said with sarcasm and disdain, the eyes never changed. They were still the eyes of an eight-year-old, too wide and too aware of the world around him. Too aware of the death and pain that the world had to offer._

_So as he stands now, trying to get the biohazard mask off of his head, all he can see is that eight-year-old, whom he told everything would be alright, that monsters didn't exists._

_It wasn't the first time he lied to Stiles_.

"Either you can come with me, or I can call your father and he can take you to the hospital. Your choice."

Stiles, while stubborn, is a smart kid who knows when he's beat. With a particularly vengeful glare at the receptionist and one directed right back at Agent McCall, he grabs his backpack and storms out of the office. Agent McCall rolls his eyes, giving the receptionist an apologetic smile as he follows the storm of a teenager out.

Stiles doesn't say anything until they're on the road, driving, which is the strangest thing. His phone keeps beeping – messages from Scott, Lydia, Kira, and one poorly-written one in all caps from someone named Malia. But he ignores each of them, unable to hide his sigh.

"Are you in a fight with them?" Agent McCall asks, unable to bear the silence much longer.

"Huh?"

"Are you fighting with them? Is that why you're not answering your texts?"

"Sheesh – invasion of privacy, much?" Stiles growls, shoving his phone in his pocket.

Agent McCall sighs heavily. "Just trying to make polite conversation here, Stiles."

"I can't remember a time you tried to do anything polite."

"Hey, now that's not fair!" Agent McCall shouts, his anger getting the better of him. "I have been nothing but helpful since—"

"Since when?" Stiles shouts. "Since yesterday? A week ago? Big whoop-di-do! Do you want a medal? A 'Not As Much of an Asshole As You Could Be' medal?"

"Okay!" Agent McCall snaps, swerving his car so that it's on the side of the road, putting it in park. "Whatever you have to say Stiles, just say it!"

"What is there to say?" Stiles shouts. "You _broke_ Melissa's heart! You hurt Scott, maybe beyond repair! You tried to get my dad _fired_. You have systematically hurt and destroyed every person in my life that I give a damn about! And then you come back, after all these years, wanting to make it right, like it'd be this easy thing! Like you can just say 'sorry' and all of that hurt and pain you caused everyone is just fine! How dare you! Seriously, how dare you! How dare you put yourself on this pedestal, trying to fix what everyone already repaired from what you broke! They may be buying your bullshit, but what happens when you leave again? I'm going to have to deal with everyone sad and crying and freaking out, because you are too chicken shit to deal with all your problems. I'm going to have to fix what you broke – again!"

Agent McCall doesn't say anything, but lets the teen scream until he's all but purple in the face. He looks into those big eyes again. There's no anger. But betrayal.

_Claudia's getting worse._

_That's at least what Melissa says when she lets that annoying eight-year-old spend the night. Again. It's the fourth day in a row. Stiles Stilinski is integrating more into the family than he even feels like he can. Rafael pours himself another drink, deciding that he didn't want two fingers of scotch – but four. He can hear the giggles of the boys upstairs, just as he had this entire week._

_But as the night drags on the giggles slowly dissipate and Melissa eyes him wearily after she announces she's going to bed. He doesn't follow her._

_He thinks he's only been in the kitchen for a few minutes, but then three hours and a half a bottle of scotch later, he realizes it's one in the morning. He blames the alcohol for him not hearing the light padding of footsteps down the hallway and then suddenly he finds himself face-to-face with the hyperactive eight-year-old who is suddenly not so hyperactive. _

_Stiles grabs a chair and hops up, looking from the bottle to Rafael. "My dad drinks a lot of that stuff too." He says after a few minutes._

_Rafael stares at the boy, who's a little out of focus. "What?"_

_Stiles grabs the scotch and scooches it out of reach from the man – something that almost seems like instinct. "My dad drinks a lot too. He's sad about Mommy, so I think it makes him feel better. But not for long. He always feels worse in the morning."_

_Rafael isn't really sure of what to say._

_"__My Mommy's really sick, isn't she?" Stiles asks, his hands still in his lap. "No one will tell me, but they keep making me stay here. I think it's because she's super sick. They think I don't know, but I know."_

_Rafael isn't coherent enough to lie to the kid. "Yeah, she's pretty sick."_

_Stiles nods. "Last time I visited her, she asked me what my name was."_

_Rafael reaches out across the table for the scotch, trying to ignore the teary gaze from Stiles as he does so. He definitely needed another drink for this conversation. "She'll get better."_

_"__What if she doesn't?" Stiles asks. "My Dad he… he might not want to be my Dad anymore. What if he doesn't want to keep me?"_

_Rafael frowns. "Why would you ask that?"_

_"__I heard him," the little boy sniffs, tears now rolling down his cheeks. "I heard him asking Melissa how he was going to be able to take care of someone as hyperactive as me. How he would be able to do it. What if he decides he doesn't want me anymore?"_

_"__Stiles," Rafael says, putting his hand on the small kid's. "He would never do that. Your father loves you."_

_"__I don't know enough to take care of him by myself. How can I take care of him by myself?"_

_"__You won't have to do it by yourself." Rafael says softly. "You have Melissa, Scott, and you have me. We'll help you. We'll all help you."_

_"__Promise?" Stiles asks, his eyes filled with tears. Rafael could hardly stand the sight of them, but he forces himself to do so._

_"__Promise."_

_The two sit in a comfortable silence for a while, until Rafael notices the clock sporting a time of 2:04. "Stiles, why aren't you asleep?"_

_"__I can't sleep. I can't turn my mind off," the little boy admits quietly. "I'm afraid she'll die and I'll be sleeping. I can't be sleeping when someone dies."_

"You're not sleeping," Agent McCall states, the realization hitting him. "You're not sleeping and you collapsed in gym."

Stiles blinks, surprised. The irritation filters out of him. "W-What?"

"You can't be sleeping when someone dies."

Stiles stares at the man. Agent McCall can feel him trying to figure him out – like a puzzle or mystery. The gaze is penetrating, but he holds it, just like he held the one years ago.

"Yeah," Stiles says quietly.

The admission means more than either of them are willing to admit. Agent McCall knows something's happening. He knows that Scott and Stiles are probably right in the middle of it. And by the looks of it, Melissa, the Sheriff, the Deputy, and Derek Hale are all a part too.

"Listen, you know I know something's up in this town. It has to be related to all the unexplained murders, the weird Japanese sword-wielding assassins at the hospital, and the mysterious illness that went away that day. I know you know. I know Scott knows. I know your dad knows and Scott's mom knows. And if you think that you can deal with this all – that you can fix this all on your own, you're wrong. Let me help you. Let me know what's going on."

"You said that last time." Stiles says quietly, no longer looking at the agent. He stares at the window, his phone beeping and buzzing nonstop. "You said that last time and it was a lie."

That's when Agent McCall realizes something.

He'd been running around, trying to make things right. With Melissa, Scott, hell – even with the Sheriff. But one very crucial oversight had been the teen, grown from the scared eight-year-old, who was afraid he couldn't be enough to help those he cared about. Who was afraid to go to sleep, because he's afraid that someone would die and he wouldn't be there to take care of them.

"Who is going to die that you're so afraid to go to sleep?" He asks.

Stiles still doesn't look at him.

"Everyone."

Agent McCall blinks, a million questions at the tip of his tongue. Instead of asking them, he puts the car in drive and goes back on the street. "You have to sleep, Stiles." He says fierily. "I know you have trouble turning your mind off, but you have to sleep. You're going to get even more sick. You can't collapse in class. You can't help take care of people unless you take care of yourself."

"Is that what you tell yourself?" Stiles asks distantly.

"After a while, yeah. Because it's the truth."

_It's a month after he leaves that he hears Claudia Stilinski passed away. He knows he's not welcome, but he finds himself driving back to Beacon Hills, following the path of black that indicate the mourners of the beloved woman. The woman who – on countless occasions – made him laugh when he didn't realize he could anymore._

_He sees Melissa and Scott in the front row and a part of his chest burns. It takes all his will power to prevent himself from going over to them. Someday. Someday, he'll be better – he'll act better – and he'll be able to stand up tall against the two._

_Unfortunately, today is not that day._

_He observes the funeral, blinking a few tears of his own. He sees that small boy, in a suit that's too big for him, too still for his comfort. John is saying something to the reverend, perhaps paying him in between tears._

_He watches as Stiles walks up to his father, his face stony and resolute. With quick hands and quicker strides, he reaches into the pockets of his father's suit, running away before the man ever registered anything happened. He follows the kid at a distance, watching in interest as he sets something on the ground._

_Several miniature bottles._

_One by one, Stiles twists open the lids and dumps the alcohol on the ground, kicking the glass away. Once he's finished, he stares at the grave of empty liquor bottles, wrapping his hands around his chest as he does so. He doesn't cry, though._

_He probably doesn't sleep either._

"Thank you," Stiles says, his voice raspy.

"I'm sorry."

"I don't think I ever got to say thank you. For saving my life."

"You're welcome."

_His wide-eyes stare at the funeral, feeling and seeing too much. Rafael hopes one day, that will change._

_It doesn't._

**A/N: Fluff? What fluff? HAHAHAHAHAHA. Spoiler: I'm bad at writing fluff. But it was a fun request to fill!**

**But I've always had this headcanon that while Stiles is mad at how Agent McCall treated Scott and Melissa, he's mainly mad because he ****_trusted_****him and Agent McCall let him down. Because, we know Stiles doesn't trust easily, and the man left. Which equals pissed off Stiles.**

**Please leave a note if you have the time! **


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